by Sarah Piper
Heart of Thorns
Vampire Royals of New York: Gabriel, Book One
Copyright © 2021 by Sarah Piper
SarahPiperBooks.com
Cover design by Covers by Juan
All rights reserved. With the exception of brief quotations used for promotional or review purposes, no part of this book may be recorded, reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means without the express permission of the author.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, businesses, organizations, brands, media, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
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Contents
Also by Sarah Piper
Get Connected!
About Heart of Thorns
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
About Sarah Piper
Also by Sarah Piper
Vampire Royals of New York
Dorian
Dark Deception
Dark Seduction
Dark Obsession
Gabriel
Heart of Thorns
Heart of Fury
Heart of Flames
Tarot Academy
Spells of Iron and Bone
Spells of Breath and Blade
Spells of Flame and Fury
Spells of Blood and Sorrow
Spells of Mist and Spirit
The Witch’s Rebels
Shadow Kissed
Darkness Bound
Demon Sworn
Blood Cursed
Death Untold
Rebel Reborn
The Witch’s Monsters
Blood and Midnight
Get Connected!
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Email: [email protected]
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About Heart of Thorns
Gabriel…
They say Gabriel Redthorne is the most ruthless royal vampire of all.
They say he tore out a man’s throat just for spilling his bourbon.
They say his heart is so cold, the women he beds turn to ice.
Good. Let them talk.
The vampire prince has always known it’s better to be feared as a monster than loved as a fool, no matter how cold his bed is.
But then he meets her.
The witch who conspired with the enemy to take down the royal family.
Dark and devious.
Fire to his ice.
His prisoner.
And after one forbidden taste, the addiction that will utterly ruin him.
Jacinda…
For seven years, dark witch Jacinda Colburn has been preparing.
Preparing to betray her half-demon bloodline.
Preparing to change her identity.
Preparing to disappear.
But for all her careful scheming, nothing could’ve prepared her for the heartless vampire prince—or for the punishments her wicked sins have earned.
They say Gabriel Redthorne is vicious. Filthy. That he can kill a man with just a touch.
But now that he owns her, all Jaci wants to know is…
What can that vicious, filthy touch do to a woman?
Chapter One
The witch was going to be a fucking headache.
Gabriel Redthorne had known it since he’d first spied her roaming his brother’s gardens at Ravenswood.
Then, he’d found her mysterious and compelling—an obsession he’d been nurturing for weeks.
Now?
“Your chances of seeing another sunrise are entirely dependent upon your cooperation, witch.” He said it like the dirty word it was, lip curling as he took in the sight of her.
Obstinate. Ornery. Filthy.
They were secluded in one of the VIP rooms on the upper level of Bloodbath, the East Village nightclub he and his royal vampire brothers had liberated from their enemies last night. The window that overlooked the ground level offered a breathtaking view of the carnage the Redthorne allies had wrought: mutilated demons, still twitching where they lay. The wet ash of all the traitorous vampires they’d slaughtered. Broken bones, lost limbs, shattered glass, rivers of blood still gleaming in the cracks and crevices.
Luck or magic—one of them had spared the witch’s life.
“You will answer my questions,” he said.
She glared at him. Her sapphire-bright eyes stood out starkly in a face painted by death. Gabriel wore the same mask, the taste of demon blood still rancid in his throat long after it had dried on his clothing.
She wasn’t the only witch they’d captured—a half-dozen of them had been working their dark magics for the enemy—but Gabriel had no use for the others.
It was Jacinda he needed. Jacinda whose intoxicating gaze held a fire that sparked in him thoughts too dangerous to voice.
“I’ve got nothing to say to you, Prince,” she hissed. She sat on a plush velvet chair against the back wall, nursing a bottle of water one of his inconveniently compassionate brothers had given her. Clothing hung from her in tatters—dark, blood-spattered jeans, one side ripped from ankle to knee. A lacy black top missing a sleeve. No shoes, bare toes curled against the cold floor, her violet nail polish chipped.
She held herself haughtily, as though she were dressed for the runway.
“Not quite ready to grind my bones into dust, then?” Gabriel smirked, recalling her earlier taunt. To be fair, that particular threat had come after he’d tied her to a barstool downstairs, but still. Even without the idle threats, her crimes were severe enough to warrant a thorough questioning, followed by an even more thorough punishment.
His specialty.
She shrugged, sipped her water. “I don’t like to vanquish enemies on an empty stomach.”
“Is that what I am?” He prowled across the room, stopping to loom over her. “Your enemy?”
All that bravado, all that fire, yet her fingers gripped the bottle so tightly they turned white. The scent of adrenaline soured her blood.
Gabriel leaned forward, hands settling on the arms of her chair, bracketing her l
ithe frame. Beneath the gore of battle, her true scent lingered, like black pepper and damp earth and things that grew only in darkness.
He waited for it to turn his stomach. To inspire in him the same revulsion all witches inspired.
It didn’t.
“Where is Renault Duchanes?” he demanded, his voice an icy blade sharpened over decades of interrogating enemies, making simpering victims of far more formidable beasts.
But this beast offered nothing but indifference, keeping her gaze locked on his like a dare. “Halfway around the world by now, if he’s a smart bloodsucker.”
“If he were smart, he wouldn’t have abandoned his bonded witch to torture and…” Gabriel fingered the collar of her torn blouse and leaned in closer, breath stirring her hair. “Ruin.”
A shiver rolled up her spine, but she kept that hot steel in her voice. “I’m not his keeper. He bailed on me, same as he bailed on everyone else, no forwarding address.”
“You admit to working for him, then?”
She lifted a shoulder far too soft and elegant to be covered in demon blood. Gabriel resisted the urge to lick it clean.
“It’s not exactly classified intel,” she said. “I was the House Duchanes bonded witch.”
“For how long?”
“Long… longer than I should’ve been.” She finally turned away, a note of regret echoing behind the admission.
Again, her scent drifted to him. Lingered.
Gabriel backed off, retreating to the other side of the room. This wasn’t going according to plan at all. He needed answers from her—answers that would lead him to the traitor Duchanes. Answers that would usher in the brutal end to a rivalry that’d stretched on for far too many decades.
More than answers, though, he needed her help.
Thanks to one of his late father’s many indiscretions, the Redthorne line had been cursed centuries ago, damning the royal family and any new vampires they sired. Gabriel had only recently begun to feel the effects, but they were already excruciating. Extreme light sensitivity, an inability to properly synthesize blood, a fog of the body and mind that—left unmitigated—would certainly destroy him.
Along with the few vampires left on this earth he gave a single fuck about.
A dark witch had bound the curse. Only a dark witch could unbind it.
“In your capacity as the Duchanes witch,” Gabriel said, forcing himself to stay focused, “you performed certain services. Correct?”
She nodded and glanced at his forearms, his sleeves rolled up past the evidence of his own witch-provided services—the spelled tattoos that enabled vampires to walk in daylight, to eat human food with the blood that sustained them, to drink good liquor and charm beautiful women and fool the world into believing they weren’t immortal monsters.
Tattoos that—thanks to the family curse—were losing their potency.
“Spells, charms, minor hexes,” she said with a shrug. “Sometimes he wanted his Tarot cards read.”
“And the attempted murder of the vampire king?” he asked, cool tone recapturing her gaze. “Whose idea was that?”
“Not mine.”
“Yet you crafted the poison, did you not?”
She closed her eyes and sighed. “Yes.”
They said it couldn’t be done, poisoning a vampire. Especially a royal vampire. Yet Duchanes and his witch had found a way to bring down Dorian Redthorne with the very herbs she’d collected at Ravenswood.
On her knees in the moonlight, skirt hiked up to mid-thigh, slender fingers digging in the dirt, luscious hair spilling down her back in waves…
The image snuck into Gabriel’s mind, sending a pulse of heat to his balls. Had he known she was already plotting his eldest brother’s murder that night, he might not have let his fantasies take root.
But he didn’t, and they had, and nothing short of his demise would dislodge them now.
Bloody fucking witches.
“If not for some quick thinking on the part of Dorian’s woman,” Gabriel said now, “my brother would be ash in the wind, and you and I would be having a very different sort of conversation.”
“It was the demon’s doing. Chernikov and Duchanes made a plan, I got an assignment.”
“What assignment, exactly?”
After a long pause, she finally opened her eyes, gaze flickering with genuine sorrow. “Devise a poison strong enough to kill a vampire, slow enough to make him suffer.”
“Any vampire? Or a specific vampire?”
“I didn’t ask questions.” A shiver followed, a fresh shot of adrenaline coursing through her blood. “Nikolai Chernikov kills witches who ask questions. Hell, he’ll probably kill me for talking to you.”
Gabriel could’ve eased that particular worry for her; thanks to Dorian’s newly forged alliances with the Rogozin demons, Chernikov and his hellspawn crew would be dead by sunset.
“Tell me something,” he said instead. “How desperate does a witch need to be before she gets into bed with the head of the demonic Russian syndicate?”
He pictured her signing the contract. Pictured Chernikov’s greasy smile, his black demon-eyes roving her body, a sheen of lust gleaming on his brow.
Anger leaked into Gabriel’s chest. They were all the bloody same. Witches, vampires, humans—the dumb and the desperate never read the fine print on a demon deal.
Stupid girl.
“I’m not,” she replied defensively, and Gabriel wondered if she’d read his thoughts.
“Not desperate? Or not in bed with demons?”
“Every last demon can burn,” she ground out, and now her blood sang with something more powerful than fear—a pure, honest emotion that echoed in the darkest places of his own tarnished soul.
Vengeance.
Gabriel raised an eyebrow. Perhaps she wasn’t such a stupid girl after all.
“Let me go,” she demanded. “This is bullshit—I’ve got nothing to do with vampire politics. Especially royal ones.”
“Says the witch who poisoned the king at the behest of his political rivals? Forgive me if I don’t leap at the chance to cut you loose.”
Gabriel paced the room, glanced back out the window. Down below, a handful of Rogozin’s underlings attempted to mop the glass and blood from the floor. Slow, sticky work.
He wondered how long it would take to renovate the place. To leach the stink of death from the walls and turn it into a nightclub to rival his properties in Las Vegas. He’d have to sell his clubs and casino now that he was relocating back to New York, but it was just as well. The desert was no place for a dying vampire with cursed blood and a target on his back.
“What do you want from me, bloodsucker?” she asked. “Why am I still here?”
When he turned to face her again, genuine confusion had tempered the fury in her eyes.
Why haven’t you killed me? That’s what she really wanted to know. If one were inclined to believe the legends, the youngest Redthorne prince had parted thousands of demons from their heads just for breathing on him, staked his own kind for beating him at cards, and ate the hearts of human babies for breakfast—an entirely unfair accusation given that he hardly ever ate breakfast.
“You stand accused of conspiring against the royal family,” he said. “My family. There are consequences.”
“You got proof? Working as a bonded witch isn’t a crime.”
Gabriel nodded toward the window. “You were found at the scene of this crime, aiding and abetting.”
“And you caused the scene of this crime.”
“A defensive maneuver, I assure you.”
The witch shook her head, clearly disgusted with him. Beneath the matted blood and ash, her hair was a silvery shade of blonde. He remembered it from that night at Ravenswood. It reminded him of moonlight, giving her an ethereal softness he was trying desperately not to notice.
To crave.
Fuck.
Since he’d been turned, Gabriel had lived his immortal life in hard edges and angle
s, clean lines, sharp knives, sharper fangs. Blood and death, ice and thorns. His world left no room for softness.
Least of all for a witch.
“Dorian found one of your grimoires,” he said. “In the home of yet another demon working against the crown.”
“Another demon? Wow, you guys have a lot of enemies. Maybe if your family had been less...” She curled her hands into claws and grimaced like a made-for-television monster. “…you’d have fewer people trying to murder you? Just a thought.”
“We know all about your dark magic, witch. Your work resurrecting the gray vampires was particularly damning, not to mention utterly repugnant.” Bile rose in his throat. He hated those fucking grays—the decay, the primitiveness, the constant reminder of what he and his kind would become without the magic of their own bonded witches. No conscience, no soul, no humanity. Just blood and bones and instinct, an endless hunger driving them to consume anything in their paths.